


Nor Am I The Captain of My Soul

by luluxa



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luluxa/pseuds/luluxa
Summary: Back in 2003, James has decided not to join brand new Top Gear, and on the afterthought, it was probably not the best decision of his life. Jeremy definitely agrees, because frankly, he’s tired of the feud it has caused and of the never-ending array of the third presenters that don’t fit. And Richard is quite fed up with living between two fires. All in all, it’s of no good and is only getting worse.





	Nor Am I The Captain of My Soul

 

Jeremy envisions his month-long trip to France to be all-around perfect, like it usually is. Nothing to distract him from the lovely scenery, good wine, even better cuisine, and, more importantly, his new pet project, i.e., a book he’s finally decided to write. He tried writing it in London, but it was dreary and full of idiots bothering him. He tried to write it in his houses in Cotswolds and on the Isle of Man, but there was no good wine and the cuisine left to be desired. Also, there were millions of kids and dogs and a freshly estranged wife regarding him with tired disappointment, so he’s packed his stuff, waived them all goodbye and in a few hours parked his rental Alfa in front of a lovely hotel just outside St. Tropez.

The first week of the vacation goes quite brilliantly. Jeremy writes zero pages of his book but he spends hours on a yacht sailing Mediterranean waters, while flirting with extremely fit, tanned youth and drinking many excellent wines. He calls it inspiration and tells everyone who asks (and doesn’t ask) that he’s currently working on a bestseller – which it is actually going to be. When Jeremy finally writes it. Which he will.

The second week, though, takes a sudden and unpredictable turn towards being not quite so brilliant at all.

With a gently clanking bag in one hand and a well-deserved fag in another, Jeremy climbs the marble porch of his hotel, nods at the porter (rather young and fit as well, Jeremy thinks in the twentieth time, contemplating inviting him to his yacht one day), walks into the lobby, his mood positively chipper, and promptly runs into a very familiar and very disagreeable figure.

“May,” Jeremy says gravely, because it is indeed the figure he runs into. “Are you following me around?”

“Oh shit,” May says, just as gravely. “Clarkson.” He pauses, eyeing Jeremy with great annoyance. “That simply won’t do,” he says, when Jeremy doesn’t evaporate under his stare. “Oz! We’re changing hotels.”

Jeremy cringes. Fucking fantastic. There’s also the wine ponce. Explains, though, what May is doing down here.

Clarke dives out from a mild crowd he’s managed to accumulate around himself in the lobby, looking his usual smug and cheerful self. “Nonsense, James. Hello, Mr Clarkson,” he greets Jeremy serenely, although he’s perfectly aware Jeremy can’t stand the sight of him. “Of course we’re not changing hotels, we’re just moved in, it’s perfect, and I must introduce you to this lovely lady over there, she lives just one floor above us and owns a charming little winery –“

“Oz,” May interrupts the flow firmly. “I can’t stay in the same hotel with,” he pauses to glance and waive a hand at Jeremy, “that.”

Jeremy snorts. “Right back at you, May. And since I was there first, it’s indeed you who must leave _immediately_.”

May nods. “That’s actually the first time I completely agree with you, Clarkson.”

There is a pause during which they all eye each other with displeasure.

Eventually, Clarke sighs. “Oh come on, chaps, you’re not five, I’m sure it’s perfectly manageable for you to spend a few days under the same roof. I bet we won’t even see each other again.”

Jeremy rather doubts it, since he and May have an uncanny ability to bump into each other three times a day in completely random places, as if the universe is on a mission to get them as annoyed as it is humanly possible. Hell, they’ve even managed to appear in the same place and in the same time in bloody _France_!

“With my luck,” May says on cue, “I’m going to see this bellend twenty times before breakfast and then thirty more before dinner.”

“Wear a paper bag on your head,” Jeremy advises, rather tired of seeing his mug already. “Would save the grief for both of us. And quite a lot of other people, actually.”

“I would still hear your from under it, what’s the bloody point? You better go drown yourself in that water feature, Clarkson,” May grumps back, gesturing at a fountain in the middle of the lobby, and finally steps aside to let Jeremy pass. “Fuck, but this man is exhausting,” he says, already on his way out. “Are you coming, Oz? I’m starving.”

Jeremy arrives to his suite in a mood that isn’t chipper at all and promptly opens a bottle of rosé he managed to find in a local supermarket. All of a sudden, the prospect of spending another day on a yacht surrounded by tanned youth loses its charm. Oh well. It’s probably the time to sit down and get on with his bestseller, then. It will certainly reduce the chance of bumping into May and Clarke again, as well.

With that thought, Jeremy downs another glass of wine, changes into not salt-covered clothes and goes to have a dinner of his own.

Naturally, the moment he sits down and makes an order, he realises that a nearby table hidden behind a potted palm is occupied by the already familiar personae.

“Go away,” May says to him, peeking from behind the palm, scowling. “We were there first, so it’s your turn to fuck off.”

Jeremy suppresses the urge to stick his tongue out at him. “No chance. I’ve been going to this restaurant for the entire week. I love it here and I shall stay.”

May huffs but dives behind the palm again without another retort. Maybe he’s so grumpy because he hasn’t yet eaten. Normally, their mutual jabs are more amusing than that. Or maybe Clarke was getting on his nerves continuously, so even a mild irritation turns into a massive annoyance by now.

When Jeremy’s dinner finally arrives, May and Clarke are already half-way through theirs, which is why, probably, May peeks from behind the palm again, looking a lot more good-natured.

“Aren’t you quite bored of having dinner alone for a week now?”

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Yes, well, sadly, I was deprived of your company.”

“Come over here, then,” May says with a tiny smirk. In the background, Clarke sits up in alarm. “Your wine is appalling, too. This table has a much better bottle.”

Jeremy spends a moment squinting at May suspiciously, but fuck, it is boring to dine alone, and – well. If Jeremy’s absolutely and brutally honest with himself, looking at smirking, bright-eyed, slightly tipsy James May is very far from an ordeal.

With some help from May and a waiter, Jeremy moves the tables and discovers his previously a bit sour mood has returned to being chipper again. Huh.

“And here I thought you couldn’t stand each other,” Clarke comments when May pours Jeremy some of their better wine. “But if this is going to turn into a bickering match, I better leave now.”

May frowns with bemusement. “We’re perfectly capable of being civil at the table, aren’t we, Clarkson?”

Jeremy nods readily. “Of course. I once had a dinner with Pierce Morgan – “

“And punched him in the face,” May supplies helpfully, smirking archly again. 

Jeremy waives him off. “No, not that time, there was another time, and I only put an entire salt pot in his Champaign when he wasn’t looking. That’s civil as fuck, considering it was Pierce Morgan. And neither of you is half as annoying as him,” he adds, watching May snicker.

“No one is half as annoying as Morgan, though,” he says. “Not even you.”

Jeremy decides it was a compliment and sets on finding out what wine he’s drinking, since it’s indeed rather good.

It turns out to be a pretty nice evening. Jeremy is told May and Clarke are not actually filming anything yet, being only on the planning stage of their annual drinking holiday and seeking inspiration in Southern France, while wanting to go to California. Jeremy, perhaps too hastily, invites them on his yacht, saying inspiration there is far greater than inland, and it looks like his bestseller writing gets postponed once more.

“Is it going to be just 300 pages of ranting?” May asks upon discovering Jeremy’s new ambition. “We have plenty of that with your weekly column, you know.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Not ranting, I hate repeating myself. It’s actually an autobiography.”

He sits, pouting, as May wheezes with laughter, trying to figure out what the fuck is so funny about it. Even Clarke looks slightly bemused.

“What are you going to write about?” May manages finally, wiping tears. “How many cars you’ve driven, how many shows you’ve tried to make and which Mediterranean islands you went to with Gill?”

His mood seems to be all over the place today, Jeremy thinks, fuming. Fucking May and his unparalleled ability to drive Jeremy mad in three seconds flat.

“My life is exceptionally interesting,” he says indignantly. “I just don’t, unlike the present company, have two thousand shows about every hobby I have and every trivial thing I know. But maybe it’s because I have a family to take care of, you know, and don’t have that much time to spend it wanking in front of the cameras and then patting my own back for the job well done.”

May’s smile slides off his face, replacing with a sharp squint.

“Of course not, it’s what you’ve got Hammond for, haven’t you?”

It takes Jeremy all his willpower to not grab May’s stupid curly bangs and smack his even stupider mug into the table, repeatedly.

“Aww, do you miss your boyfriend, May?” he croons instead through his teeth. “Jealous he’s playing with me now, and not you?”

“Gentlemen, please,” Clarke tries to quip in, but they both ignore him in order to glare at each other angrily.

“I don’t know what games you’re playing, but I do spend a lot of time these days listening to him whine and moan about your insufferable egomania and shit character. Perhaps your games are not satisfactory enough.”

Jeremy tries to count to ten in attempt to calm down, but it doesn’t work. Plus, May still seems infuriatingly calm and collected. What _does_ it take to make him lose his temper? Jeremy wants to find out terribly, only unfortunately, they’re in a public place and getting police involved would be simply embarrassing.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says when his throat unclenches. “What do _you_ do to keep Hammond happy? Does it involve those colourful rubber toys and loads of lubrication?”

“Why yes, if you mean old Hondas and machine oil. Were you thinking about something else?”

“Right.” Clarke suddenly puts his glass aside and gets up. “I’ve had enough of your petty juvenile squabbling. Good night, gentlemen.”

For a whole minute after his departure, they sit in silence.

“Polishing and stick dipping, then?” Jeremy offers after a pause.

“Oh, fuck off,” May snaps, gets up as well and walk out without another word.

Jeremy contemplates his empty glass. Definitely no yachting tomorrow, with the youth _or_ May. But definitely lots of drinking all the excellent wines piling up in his hotel fridge.

 

The absolutely worst thing about it all is that secretly, Jeremy likes James May.

Likes the programmes he makes, likes the articles he writes, likes his odd dry sense of humour, likes his unflappable manner of doing whatever the fuck he wants without giving two shits about the public opinion, likes his many random talents and skills, likes his atrocious fashion sense and his mischievous boyish smile – the whole existence of James bloody May is likeable, Jeremy thinks, getting to the bottom of his second bottle of wine.

And it’s not like Jeremy never tried to befriend him. Hell, his very first choice for another Top Gear presenter was James May, and he went out of his way trying to persuade the producers and the BBC management that James is exactly what Top Gear lacks. Only, of course, he forgot to persuade James in the same thing, assuming, for some reason, that doing Top Gear is the pinnacle of everyone’s ambition.

Obviously not, though.

Jeremy can’t pinpoint the moment when their casual fleeting acquaintance, pretty amicable too, had turned into a biting and continuous quarrel, spread through the articles they write and shows they film, and interviews they give, and, naturally, fuelled every time they meet at random parties and in the BBC Center corridors. And Jeremy never forgets for a bloody moment he likes James May rather a lot, even when the bastard drives him absolutely livid with his mocking remarks. If anything, it only adds an edge to Jeremy’s never fading desire to bang him senseless.

Oh okay, fine, yes. Jeremy fancies James May somewhat terribly. And it is possible that James knows and it’s what made him decline the job on Top Gear and what makes him so prickly and vicious in Jeremy’s presence. Maybe Jeremy wasn’t very careful in the past and said something that made his desire obvious, or maybe he was a bit too drunk to keep his hands to himself at one of the parties. Either way, he clearly did something wrong that caused the animosity, and he was too proud to just ask what was it.

 

Hungover and feeling all around like shit, Jeremy spends the next day sitting on a shadowed balcony, smoking and watching birds.

When heat and boredom prompt him back into the room, he produces his laptop and spends another two hours just trying to come up with the most fascinating facts and stories about himself, but annoyingly, his thought slides towards the cars he’s driven, shows he failed to make and his vacations with Adrian. Jeremy imagines May laughing vividly and nearly throws the laptop into a wall.

He doesn’t risk going out for a lunch, ordering one inside and settling on watching French arthouse. It’s just as shit as his mood, after all.

 

*

 

James is not having a good vacation.

It started with an attempt to get the fuck away from London and Sarah, who had finally realised James is not the man of her dreams, and it only got worse from that point.

James knows that Oz, bless him, is trying his very best to distract him from moping, but unfortunately, it’s not working. It wasn’t working from the very beginning, to be honest. James realised that quickly and settled for getting plastered studiously every night, waking up with a horrible hangover the next day – he could do that at home, really, only without an annoying little man pouring nonsense into his ears, and without the necessity to shave every morning.

By the time they reach St. Tropez, James’s shit mood begins to dissipate, probably because all his senses are finally thoroughly drowned in wine, and even bumping into Clarkson doesn’t send him to the harbour and off a pier immediately. If anything, it shakes him up a bit, sending a familiar adrenaline jolt through his system. Maybe James just has to have a really good row with someone he won’t mind kicking into the dirt. Could be therapeutic.

Of course, what he forgets about, is that Clarkson doesn’t mind kicking him into the dirt, either.

 

“You’re even less fun today than in the last two weeks,” Oz observes testily, as James ignores yet another of his attempts at conversation. “Are you going to at least try and get distracted?”

James shrugs, lighting another fag. “The universe itself obviously wants me to suffer. Who am I to argue?”

Oz snorts. “Bollocks. We were having a perfectly nice evening, but you had to cock it up deliberately to feel sorry for yourself again. I’m actually surprised he didn’t punch you in the face. I would, in his place.”

Well, maybe it’s what James was aiming at.

“Is there a reason you’re constantly in each other’s throats, anyway?” Oz asks after a long pause. “Didn’t he offer you a job on Top Gear back in the day?”

James cringes, finding the subject the least welcome. But if he’s being punished for being a monumental twat, he might as well take all of it.

“I declined it,” he says darkly.

Oz sighs. “Well, obviously, but why?”

Why, indeed? Because he was only offered a go when another bloke didn’t cut it? Because he was already fired once from Top Gear and didn’t want to be fired again? Because he’d spent the whole 2002 trying to get Hammond to a pub, only to be snubbed and told he has no time and how much fun it is to be a part of Clarkson’s brand new Top Gear? In other words, because James was petty, full of himself, jealous and too stubborn for his own good?

Or maybe because he’s spent his whole life fucking up everything nice he came across and it became his comfort zone? Would explain Sarah, too.

Not satisfying Oz’s curiosity, James gets up to fetch a bottle of wine from the fridge. Half past eight. Time to get drunk.

 

The next day he discovers that Oz has fucked off with that lovely lady with a winery, and hopes it’ll occupy the poor sod for a couple of days. He deserves a respite from James, for sure.

Having nothing to do and deciding that getting drunk in a hotel all alone is a low he doesn’t want to hit, James shaves and goes out for a stroll.

The day is scorching hot and quite beautiful – James hopes Clarkson is on his yacht enjoying himself and they won’t have a displeasure of running into each other again. He scoffs, recalling the invitation. Clarkson was probably just planning to throw him overboard and watch sharks feast on him.

James buys an ice-cream to celebrate his miraculous escape from the imminent gruesome death and settles on the seafront, deciding that yachts look a lot better from a bench.

He spends the whole day outside, walking around, window-shopping and actually shopping, buying some wine for Oz and for his own collection, and by the time of dinner, and especially after it, he feels quite a lot better.

And quite a lot guiltier, since he was unarguably a cockend towards Clarkson. He really should apologise and give him that bottle of nice rosé he’s conveniently bought on the stroll, probably guided by his subconscious.

With that self-flagellating decision, James returns to the hotel, grabs the rosé, braces himself, and goes to knock on the door of Clarkson’s suite.  

For the longest while nothing happens, but it appears Clarkson hasn’t yet gone to have his lone dinner.  

“May,” he says as he opens the door, surprised and scowling. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

James produces the bottle, almost using it as a shield. “I’d like to apologise. I did act absolutely uncivil yesterday, I fully admit.” He pauses, as Clarkson stares between him and the bottle. “Just take it and let my conscience rest.”

Clarkson focuses on James again, eyes uncomfortably sharp. “Going to come in?”

James hesitates. Not the best decision, and the invitation was certainly not given out of sudden friendliness. But if Clarkson wants to torture him on top of the wine – well, James has only deserved it.

He comes in, discovering a rumpled mess that has obviously been caused by someone who’s spent the whole day inside. There is a couple of empty wine bottles under a table, the telly is showing incomprehensible French arthouse, and the suite is appropriately dimly lit by one bedside lamp.

“Having fun?” James asks, and immediately bites on his tongue. He’s come here with a white flag, not to exercise sarcasm and mockery again.

Clarkson snorts. “Loads, as you can see. Even your company seems to be more agreeable than another minute of this drivel.” He turns the telly off with visible satisfaction. “Rosé?” he asks, examining James’s bottle. “You’ve made an effort.”

James finds himself a place in a chair not occupied by either clothes, laptops or bags. “You better appreciate it, then.”

He’s not sure why Clarkson’s mood has taken a turn from yesterday’s cheerful to today’s gloomy. Surely, James’s snarls and jabs couldn’t hurt him so deeply? It’s what they do, isn’t it? He can’t imagine Clarkson locking himself away to drink and watch shit films every time they exchange some witticisms – and last night was only different due to James being a maudlin and therefore unfunny arse. Or is it about the book?

“I didn’t mean it about your autobiography,” he says as Clarkson pours them the wine. “I’ll probably even enjoy reading it. Just make it short,” he adds, unable to withhold.

Clarkson smirks wryly. “Well, I _was_ being overambitious. I tried actually writing it today and short is exactly what it’s panning out to be.”

James blinks. “Please don’t tell me it’s because of what I said. I couldn’t handle this sort of power.”

Clarkson frowns. “Of course it’s not because of you. I’ve been having the writer’s block for a month now, just thought changing scenery could help.”

Well, that’s easier to live with. He wants badly to comment on Clarkson’s usual prolificacy and that it must mean his life is not actually a rich source of inspiration, but it would rather spoil James’s efforts at peace establishing.

“Why are _you_ so fucking miserable, anyway?” Clarkson asks suddenly, as cruelly observant as ever. “I can’t write; what’s your problem?”

James shifts in the chair. Only Oz knows about Sarah, since James wasn’t so keen to inform everyone he’s failed at relationship _again_. But then, Oz was trying to be comforting, which was annoying. Maybe Clarkson’s lack of sympathy will agree with James’s self-loathing more.

“My girlfriend left me,” he says without a preamble, like diving into the cold water. “You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Clarkson eyes him for a long moment. “I’m sorry, James,” he says finally, sounding a lot softer then James would expect. “It fucking sucks.”

It occurs to him that Clarkson has never called him James, ever. At the moment, this detail overshadows, for some reason, the bitterness of the break up.

Eventually, when silence stretches, James shrugs. “I should’ve got used to it, I’ve been dumped so bloody often. But we were together for seven years and I started to believe it’s going to last.”

Clarkson huffs. “Women don’t think the same way. The longer it is, the less they like it. You think everything’s perfect and settled and fine, and she looks at your pleased mug, and thinks, why am I spending my best years on this cunt?”

James scoffs. “How the fuck would you know, you happily married insufferable arse?”

Clarkson’s face falls a bit. “Married is a stretch, happily is a blatant lie.”

It’s James’s turn to eye him with surprise. He would never have guessed something is off in Clarkson household. Maybe they’re keeping up the façade for the kids. James is rather glad, in this light, than neither he nor Sarah has ever wanted any.

“You’re lucky you never had any kids,” Clarkson says on cue. “Parents’ problems is the last thing they should be involved in.”

“Katya’s only nine. For how long are you going to pretend everything’s fine?”

Clarkson’s face and shoulders sag into complete unhappiness, making James regret his question. “Probably until it gets unbearable. Or maybe until Francie finds someone worth dropping the act for.”

“Not you?”

“Doubt it.”

They sit in silence again, the wine disappearing quickly. Vodka is what they should be drinking right now, really – there must be some in the fridge.

He expresses the idea, to which Clarkson nods readily. Well, getting shitfaced with someone just as miserable, if not more, is certainly easier and makes you feel less shit.

James gets the vodka and all the rest of the tiny bottles, scattering them on the bed in front of Clarkson and slumping there as well, since the chair seems too far away.

“You called me James,” James recalls when the tiny vodka bottle and then a whiskey bottle end up on the floor, empty. “That’s not right.”

Clarkson scowls. “I didn’t.” His mug is out of focus, James notices, becoming nicely soft. “I have never called you James.”

“You have, when you said yous- you’re sorry,” James says with some difficulty. He feels warm and unfocused himself, the month worth of depression sliding away somewhere, replacing with the usual unwelcome fondness Clarkson causes in him. If James could only figure out how it’s possible – and it could be that calling him James has something to do with it. James wants to figure it out. “You should’ve called me May and told me I’m a wanker. Not that you’re sorry.”

“Well, I _was_ being sorry for you, you ungrateful wanker!” Clarkson retorts. “May,” he adds after a thoughtful pause, making James giggle.

He lies back across the giant bed, the distant ceiling floating – or maybe it’s the bed floating. Would be nice to get on that yacht and float away somewhere, not giving a shit about treacherous women and all the suffering they cause. James closes his eyes, feeling sleepy and for the first time in the last month – not desperately unhappy.

When something touches his face and hair softly, it doesn’t occur to him to be bothered to open his eyes and check. It’s nice, being touched – caressed, even, gently and hesitantly, like it might startle him. James smiles, not ever applying the words ‘hesitant’ or ‘gentle’ to Clarkson, but he seems to be full of surprises tonight.

He’s so drunk the oddness of the situation only downs on him when the gentle fingers replace with the gentle lips and a kiss in corner of his mouth. His eyes fly open.

“You’re kissing me,” he says to Clarkson, dumbfound.

“Well, you didn’t seem to mind,” Clarkson says, looking faintly embarrassed.

It’s hard to focus on him, because he’s so close and because James is so full of alcohol. “I don’t mind,” he says, scowling. “Never thought you wouldn’t either.”

It seems to perplex Clarkson, who stars at James for a while with the same drunk fuzziness to him. Then he blinks, shrugs and kisses James again, this time properly.

James may be drunk and he and Clarkson may not be on the very best terms, but he hasn’t had any sex for a long while and he wants it badly – maybe especially so since it’s indeed Clarkson who’s offering.

“Jeremy,” he murmurs between kisses experimentally, tasting the name. “Jeremy.”

Clarkson likes it, looks like, smiling against James’s skin and sliding a palm under his shirt. “Save it until I have your cock down my throat,” he says – promises, making James bite on his lips and arch into the hot palms.

 

James wakes up with a monstrous hangover, vaguely nauseous, covered in spunk, and with something very uncomfortable sticking into his side. Covered in Jeremy Clarkson’s spunk, to be precise, while the owner of the stuff is passed out face-down beside James, snoring faintly.

James manages to locate a clock that shows 4… a.m., probably. The uncomfortable hard object in his side turns out to be a tiny bottle – still full. James pushes it away.

He lies motionless for a while, trying to gather his thoughts. What the ever-loving fuck has made them do it? Well, sure, James was having some massively blue balls, a case of loneliness, and a suppressed and bothersome attraction towards the pillock, but what’s Clarkson’s excuse?

 _Jeremy_ , he repeats to himself, recalling to use it quite a lot a few hours ago, along with ‘fuck’ ‘yes’ and ‘ah!’.

Going back to London and scathing remarks, and a silent, covert battle over Hammond seems pretty grim, but James can’t imagine there can be anything else. Better save them both a really awkward conversation, he decides, sitting up with difficulty.

Jeremy – fuck, no, Clarkson – shifts and mutters something displeased, but only rolls on his side and stills again. James watches him for a bit – curled up like a child, wearing only a rumpled tee-shirt and one sock, he is ridiculous and endearing. Vulnerable, almost – not the Clarkson James is used to, or the Clarkson everybody knows. James doesn’t want to know this – this Jeremy, because it makes him want a lot more, all unrealistic and impossible.

James gathers his clothes, putting the jeans on before sliding out of the suite, even though he doubts he might meet anyone in the corridors.

There should be some planes leaving for London first thing in the morning, he thinks. Better take one and move on before the unrealistic begins to grow in him.

How the hell he managed to ruin one relationship and mess up another in a span of a month, is beyond James – but then, he was always pretty good at ruining good things and messing up everything else. 

 

*

 

For the next two weeks Jeremy feels persistently and heavily bewildered.

First, he slept with James May who, by the looks of it, enjoyed it _a lot._

Second, James May, who enjoyed it a lot, pulled a disappearance act and vanished completely from Jeremy’s radars.

Third, Jeremy’s radars appeared to care of nothing else apart from finding James May and making him enjoy it some more.

Fourth, all one the above makes very little sense and produces a lot of headache.

He tries to call – because of course he has James’s number, even though he’ll hardly admit it before anyone – but gets ignored. He tries to make a sudden visit, only to discover nobody’s home. Or somebody pretending there isn’t anybody.

What the hell is James’s problem, he can’t fathom. Neither of them is bound by a commitment. Neither of them seems to mind homosexual fucking. Neither of them was particularly reluctant or appalled by engaging in homosexual fucking with each other. Keeping a secret, if that’s the issue, wouldn’t be that bloody difficult, surely. And if James was having cold feet because he was just dumped and didn’t want to start a new relationship – well, who the fuck said it’d be a _relationship_ , with Jeremy? (Not that Jeremy has anything against it, but assuming it was bloody self-confident of May.)

“Have you seen May lately?” he asks Hammond when they meet for filming, a week into Jeremy’s struggle.

Hammond scowls suspiciously. “No, why?”

Jeremy hums, shrugging. He’s pretty sure James isn’t about to cut his wrists or run to Zimbabwe, but he is definitely tinkering with the hundred of his rusty bikes instead, all alone and overthinking shit.

“You probably should,” he advises Hammond, disliking the idea of James’s lonely moping.

Hammond stares at him. “Are you telling me to go and hang out with James?”

Well, it is an unusual request, granted, but Jeremy’s pretty fucking tired of the feud that appears to have no real grounds.

“Well, he broke up with his girlfriend,” he says, “I imagine he could use some company.”

“He broke up with his girlfriend??” Hammond repeats, eyes comically large. “Who told you?”

Oh. Crap. Well, it’s James’s own fault he doesn’t tell even his friends anything. “He told me. Now, can we stop gossiping and go films something?”

“ _He told you?_ ” Hammond demands, as Jeremy walks towards the film crew.

“Stop repeating after me,” Jeremy says with annoyance, “And get into the car.”

He shouldn’t have dragged Hammond into it, Jeremy thinks darkly when the filming is over and the questions start again. He imagines telling Hammond he and James are shagging, and cringes. Maybe James’s decision to dismiss it was the right one, after all.

Preoccupied with James bloody May and their shared issues, and trying to find the seasonal third presenter, and writing hastily the scripts, Jeremy doesn’t pay enough attention to Hammond and his moronic ideas. He’s aware there’s a jet car and Hammond wanting to rub himself all over it, but he’s not aware enough, only saying it’s fucking dangerous and would probably end up badly.

He doesn’t expect a phone call from overly calm sounding Andy.

Everything is too much all at once, and suddenly, Jeremy is utterly fucking lost.

 

 

A styrofoam cup of coffee appears before him, but it takes Jeremy a moment to concentrate on it and realise it’s for him.

“May,” he says, flat with surprise, when he discovers it’s May indeed holding the cup patiently.

“I’ve heard on the fucking radio,” James says, sitting beside Jeremy in the awkward plastic chair of the waiting room. He looks tired and grey. “Why the hell did you let him drive that thing?”

Jeremy shifts, overflown with guilt. “I didn’t, he just does whatever the fuck he wants.”

James eyes him rather coldly, unimpressed. “If you said no, he wouldn’t have done it. He thinks you fart rainbows and the sun rises with you. You just had to say no.”

Jeremy makes a face, admitting his defeat. “I had to.” He doesn’t try to find more excuses and say there were other things occupying him. There is no excuse. He’s the one to blame and no one else.

James sighs. “Well, he’s a tough little idiot. He’ll pull through, against all odds.”

Grateful, Jeremy nods. He couldn’t bear James’s scolding right now. In a few minutes he’ll get up and get into the room with ghostly and motionless Hammond, and unnaturally upbeat Mindy, and he’ll have to be confident and not at all on the verge of crying.

“Have you been inside?” Jeremy asks when he finishes his coffee and feels a bit more composed. He gets up and wishes James went with him.

James shakes his head, getting up as well.

“Let’s go, then.”

Andy escapes from the press for ten minutes to get an update, and spares them, unitedly huddled with Mindy over the bed, an incredulous glance. Jeremy doesn’t understand that incredulity – even if they truly hated each other, Richard’s life is still more important than some petty squabbles.

The day stretches endlessly, and so does the night. Jeremy doesn’t know how Mindy manages to smile steadily hour after hour, like she is adamantly sure everything will be all right. Probably just not letting herself have a whisper of a doubt. Jeremy isn’t that strong-willed, and neither is James, who escapes for a smoke and doesn’t come back for so long Jeremy goes in search of him.

James smiles wryly when Jeremy finally finds him in the car park. “It’s the last one,” he says, waiving a fag.

Jeremy lights his own. “How many last ones were there?”

“About five.”

If only they were on hugging terms. Jeremy could use a hug right now – but he knows James hates this casual touching, not letting even his best friends fondle him.

Standing side by side while smoking seems like nowhere near comforting enough, but when they go back, Jeremy’s head is clearer and the chest isn’t that tight.

 

*

 

As the time goes and Hammond gets progressively better, expressing his wish to keep filming, an idea forms in Jeremy’s mind. A brilliant idea, if potentially disastrous. But how bad can it be, and all that jazz? Certainly not worse than sitting in their quiet lifeless office, with the show hanging by a thread, Richard in some remote location freaking out, and James avoiding Jeremy again now when the immediate danger has passed.

Jeremy doesn’t tell anyone about this idea of his, answering to Andy evasively every time he brings up the show’s fate.

“We’ll see,” he says to every question. “We‘ve got to make sure first Hammond can memorise lines and can tell apart his gear box from his hand-brake.”

Andy snorts. “That’s just a technical problem. What about the third presenter? What about the scripts? What about the cars?”

Jeremy waives him off. “One at a time, please.”

“I mean, you could probably do one season without a third wheel. Put the focus on you two, tie the scripts to that, the audience should like it.”

Jeremy hums. “I’ve got a better idea.”

“What is the better idea?” Andy asks with a sigh, starting to get annoyed.

“You’ll see.”

Andy huffs and finally goes away, given up.

The thing is, though, Jeremy doesn’t know if his idea would work. He’ll try and try again, of course, until he’s literally kicked out, but he’ll do everything in his power this time to get what he wants.

 

*

 

For an entire month after Richard’s accident James is spared from seeing Clarkson’s mug anywhere. He’s not on the telly, he doesn’t write any articles, he doesn’t call James for whatever idiotic reason he did right after France, they don’t even meet randomly by unfortunate accidents in the Beeb offices or restaurants.

So, with Sarah out of the picture, Hammond somewhere in therapy, Oz wining and dining his new lady friend from St. Tropez, Colin perpetually busy, and Clarkson presumably having finally descended to Hell where he belongs, James feels rather lonely. It’s not a familiar feeling – James likes spending time alone, he welcomes it when people bugger off, but now, when everybody finally has, he finds himself bitter and moping.

What’s even worse, he has no new projects either, seemingly catching the writer’s block from Clarkson, like some nasty STD, so he can’t even hide behind a workload and wait everything out. Well, at least he’s not drinking anymore, no more than usual, anyway, first the incredibly inconvenient sex and then Hammond‘s idiocy breaking him out of developing alcoholism. Although James can’t help but think many of his evenings would be much more bearable if he was facing them drunk off his tits.

One of those evenings, he spends in the garage, making his unmendable Honda even less mended, by the looks of it, getting seriously annoyed and stomping back to the house with a firm belief it does require getting drunk.

Which he can’t do, because the moment he steps into the kitchen, still covered in machine oil and dust, he sees Clarkson approaching his porch, a grave and heavy look on his face.

For a  second, James feels paralysed, thinking it must be Richard again, and doesn’t react when the bell rings. If he must hear it, he can at least hear it a second later.

When the bell rings for the third time, James braces himself and goes to open the door.

They stare at each other in silence.

“Is it Hammond?” James asks, his insides stone cold.

Clarkson scowls, then blinks, and then shakes his head vigorously. “Heavens, no. Well, in a way. May I come in?”

Confused, but his insides more at ease now, James steps aside and lets Clarkson barge in. It makes the house seem tiny immediately, and James feels crowded.

“What hole in your dungeon did you crawl out of?” Clarkson asks ceremoniously once inside and looking around curiously, sparing James a glance while at it. “You look like a hippy.”

James glances down at his ratty tee and holes-ridden jeans, and pushes his grown-out bangs out of his face self-consciously. “Hippies weren’t the only ones with the long hair. I’m prog rock.”

Clarkson snorts. “I’m offended on behalf of it.”

In the kitchen, Clarkson invites himself to sit down, while James stops in front of him, arms crossed.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Well, I’m here to offer you a job. Again.”

This is the last thing James expects to hear. “What job?” he asks dumbly.

Clarkson huffs. “The one you didn’t take the first time I offered. I want you to be our third presenter. At least for one series. Would you be inclined to consider my reasoning before telling me to fuck off?”

James is so befuddled, he nods automatically, sitting down as well.

Clarkson perks up a bit. “As I said, it is about Hammond, partly. Not only because of him, but mostly for him. ”

It begins to make sense, James thinks, although without much enthusiasm.

“I didn’t tell anyone yet, since I didn’t know whether you would turn me down again. Wilman wants it to be just me and Hammond for a while, but it’s not gonna work. I can’t be always attuned to his moods and needs, and he’d go out of his way to hide it from me if I pushed it too hard and he was about to lose it. And with a random guest host he’d shut off even more or try too hard to appear bloody superhuman. No, there has to be someone else on the lookout, but someone he trusts and someone who really does care about the tiny moron. And I do believe this someone is you.”

Well, if James tried to turn him down after this speech, he’d just look like a cunt. Especially with Clarkson putting aside all the years of their animosity to make this offer again, for Richard’s sake.

“There were other reasons, you said,” James inquires before saying yes. Because of course he will say yes.

Clarkson nods but looks a bit less confident now. “Yeah, a few. One of them is that I’m frankly tired being in a continuous quarrel with you for virtually no reason at all. The other is that I think you will fit the show better than any other presenter we had so far. Especially since the third presenter’s place was always yours to begin with.”

James feels dumbfound again and somewhat flustered. “You tried out Dawe at first, though, before offering me a go,” he argues, refusing Clarkson’s groundless flattery.

This causes a frown. “No, you were the first and only candidacy I had on my list before we’ve even started. It’s the Beeb that didn’t want you, offering us a woman and then threatening to not let us film anything at all unless we hire someone... safe. Not another barely sane troublemaker, I think, their words were.”

“A barely sane troublemaker?!” James asks, indignant, making Clarkson smirk. Then he considers the whole deal, embarrassment overtaking him slowly.

“Well, they knew why you were fired from Autocar, and they’ve seen you on old Top Gear, and more importantly, they’ve seen your audition for my Top Gear. As I said, all of it makes you perfect in my eyes, but made you unacceptable in theirs.”

James huffs, his ears feeling hotter than he’d like it. Not only he was being an arrogant twat for turning Clarkson down, he now has to live with the fact their secret liking of one another is mutual. And may lead to... stuff, potentially. Since there was already a precedent.

He clears his throat. “Okay,” he says at last. “When do I sign the papers, then?”

Instantly, Clarkson beams at him, becoming Jeremy once again and making James’s heart flutter about his chest in a very unmanly way. It was never yet directed at him, this smile, and James knows he’ll do anything in his power to have it again.

Well, shit.

 

*

 

They get drunk again – well, they try to get drunk, after Jeremy suggests James’s newly acquired job demands a celebration.

Half a bottle in, Jeremy gets up to help with the snacks, claiming James is too clumsy while _sober_ to operate a knife, and three seconds later, somehow, they’re kissing desperately and Jeremy’s so hard he can see stars.

James ends up on the counter, legs spread and Jeremy between them, too many jeans in the way, but perfect nonetheless. Busy licking James’s collarbone, he doesn’t notice his fly getting unzipped, not clumsily at all, but he does notice a hot palm on his aching balls.

“You don’t fuck about,” Jeremy comments, gasping.

He pauses with the licking to watch his cock sliding in the oil-smeared fist, tight and sure, making his knees wobble.

“I’d love to watch you come,” James informs him, breathless, “but right now, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to explode.”

His wits all over the place, Jeremy manages to align their hips just so, taking them both in his fist and letting James fall back, arching into the touch shamelessly, like it’s Jeremy’s most secret porn fantasy – curls in his face, oil-smudged and blushing all the way down to his nipples, moaning with every stroke Jeremy makes – it’s all too fucking good to last a while.

 

Banged out and smiling shyly at each other now and again, they order an Indian, finish the wine, and relocate to a sofa, half-watching _Where Eagles Dare_ and half-drowsing off, exchanging commentary when a scene prompts it.

It’s a very sudden progression from enemies to... not enemies, Jeremy  contemplates lazily, but then again, not an astonishing one. In some ways, they were always quite in sync, managing to learn each other inside out while searching for weaknesses and faults, and now it feels more like making up with a friend rather than getting chummy with a foe.

Maybe there’s fate in there, somewhere.

“It’s late,” James says, yawning, when the credits roll. “And I don’t think you like me enough yet to stay, cos it is said my snoring is apocalyptic. Also, I’m still dirty,” he mutters, glancing down on himself, nose wrinkled.

Jeremy giggles and spends quite a lot of minutes kissing James and his wrinkles, but takes the subtle hint and says his goodbyes.

“I’ve promised the kids to spend the weekend with them, but I’ll be back on Monday and I will personally deliver you to the Aunty to sign the contract,” Jeremy says on his way out. “Either you’d probably get lost, run over by a submarine, or distracted by a random goat.”

James smiles at that in the sweetest manner, eyes bright, but Jeremy is strong-willed and only kisses that smile once.

 

*

 

For some reason, this time the identity of the third presenter is a big secret. Richard can’t help but be wary, because he knows Jeremy and he knows Wilman, and they are a pair of wicked bastards and will probably see to Richard making an arse of himself.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” he asks Wilman on their way to Jeremy’s flat. “A super hot one and some sort of a perverted ‘welcome back’.”

Wilman snorts. “Well, you’re not far from the truth, if we’re talking about Jeremy's point of view.”

Richard scowls, dreading to think about it closely, cos his marbles aren’t that intact yet.

“Right,” Jeremy says as soon as he opens the door to let Richard and Wilman in. “I’ve made an effort and you better appreciate it. And I’m not casting another third presenter ever again, so if you’ve got an objection – stuff it.”

Richard blinks, feeling rather intimidated and hella confused, cos along with the threatening tone, Jeremy is also grinning like an idiot and Wilman looks like a long-suffering mother of a horde of badly behaved children.

“Oh-kay,” Richard drawls cautiously. “Give me a minute, I feel like I must prepare –“

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” a very familiar and mildly annoyed voice says then. “Can we just get on with it and go to a pub? I’ve been entertaining Clarkson the whole day, I need a pint.”

Richard gapes at James who’s strolled from the kitchen, arms crossed and looking impatient.

“Yup, still me,” he says when Richard fails to say anything, glancing between proudly beaming Jeremy and snickering Wilman and then focusing on James again. “Are you sure he’s entirely fit for television?”

“I don’t know how the hell did you do that,” Richard finally manages, pointing at Jeremy. “And what possessed you, but,” he grins, “It’s not the worst third presenter we’ve had, I give you that.”

“Thanks,” James and Jeremy both say in unison, one with sarcasm, the other sincerely, and maybe there are many a disaster to come, but it’s definitely going to be fun.

Richard nods to himself, absolutely sure for the first time since the crash he can make it and the show can make it.

They go to a pub.

 

 


End file.
